Editor’s Note: This is Part II of a two-part series. You can read Part I here.
So now I was even with one victory and defeat. You’d perhaps think it was over… but it was not. Jeff Patterson lived on a ranch. He was strong and fearless. He was never seen without his John Deere cap on. He was never seen without his can of Copenhagen in his right back pocket, as he was right-handed, Jeff was. He was always seen with boots and jeans, and he was always ready and willing to dish out an ass-whooping to me from his horn of plenty of beatings.
I resigned to the probability that these would be forthcoming throughout my senior high school year, and I was sore afraid. We were classmates in woodshop. Why couldn’t I have had him in American Literature where nothing but the pallid fear of paper cuts abounded? Instead, I was surrounded by an army of the finest John Deere. A classmate of mine offered this:
“George, the next time Jeff messes with you just look him square in the eye and tell him to phuk off!”
And the next time didn’t take long to come.
“What’s new, punk?” Jeff said to me one day in the woodshop. And he flicked me hard on the forehead with his thumb and forefinger. Man, was than that really supposed to hurt that much I thought? Then came my finest hour:
“You know what, Jeff… phuk off — phuk the PHUK off!” There we stood momentarily in a blank-faced stare. Finally, Jeff reach toward the nearest table and secured a long thin morsel of pine, which he laid across my face several times… with gusto! From the floor I stood, brushed off the sawdust from mes pantalons, and grabbed the nearest bigger stick. The stick I selected was center pine which is a whole lot harder than knotty pine.
Jeff looked horrified. I wasn’t sure if it was because of me; I had never seen him scared before. It was as if a knave hand entered the King’s court and announced “Let the games begin!” followed by two sharp claps of his hands. That vision in my head did tickle my fancy so as to pull out the corners of my mouth toward my ears in a Rictus of grins, doubtless emanating all the ferocity of a Glasgow smile.
And outside the woodshed in the small courtyard there came to be a modest marble obelisk with the following inscription on it:
“In Memory of Our Fellow Student, Jeffery Patterson, who on this day in the Year of our Lord 1978, got his redneck honkey ass whipped not once, not twice, but thrice by a student of a much gentler, milder stock and disposition.
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I was ordered to the nurse’s office (as if she were supposed to actually be awake in her office.) I maintained my composure as best as I could while she fumbled around with aspirin and records, and proceeded to construct a replica on my face and head with the most outlandishly inefficient bandage scheme:
“Gawd, nurse Martha… don’t you guys practice these head bandage rituals on bowling balls or something before you migrate to humans?
“No, yours is my first.”
“TA-DOW, I’ll give you that one, Nurse!”
From her office, I went into the boys’ bathroom, leaned inside, and plucked the Rube Goldberg off of my head and into the trash. Sure as I turned about to leave I ran smack into Nurse Martha:
“Young man, WHERE are your dressings.”
“Uh, they were so good that I’m all healed up — can you believe it??”
At home that night I sat on my bed sulking over the day. My dad came in to check on me, saw the blood and bruises, and made his deduction:
“Son, you win some; you lose some. There is honor in standing some ground so tenuously… but it is yours so you will stand! I’m sorry, truly sorry you are beaten and sobbing.”
“No, Dad… it’s not the beating… I got expelled from school for two days for the excessively violent treatment of a fellow student.”
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… what do you say, son… go get some ice cream?”
“Yahhhhhhh!”
By Almighty God and with honor,
geo sends
Feature image created by Alejandra Sotomange/Wikimedia Commons
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Phil D.,
A remarkable story of yours. Even when I was about the spanking age, I did not understand what good hitting did me… perhaps my hand could be forced into this response:
“I know when I engage in this activity I get decently walloped by my mother (big deal) but especially by my dad. From now on I need to carefully weigh the pain of the spanking against the pleasure I get from engaging in the misconduct. I used this formula to help calc it out: (PB + rR < PB {57} x 0).
I never had the deplorable desire to hit any of my three babies. I told myself I would never treat my chillins physically the way I was at times. My X, she was fully engaged in slapping and banshee screaming.
Cheers, Phil
Phil D.,
A remarkable story of yours. Even when I was about the spanking age, I did not understand what good hitting did me… perhaps my hand could be forced into this response:
“I know when I engage in this activity I get decently walloped by my mother (big deal) but especially by my dad. From now on I need to carefully weigh the pain of the spanking against the pleasure I get from engaging in the misconduct. I used this formula to help calc it out: (PB + rR < PB {57} x 0).
I never had the deplorable desire to hit any of my three babies. I told myself I would never treat my chillins physically the way I was at times. My X, she was fully engaged in slapping and banshee screaming.
Cheers, Phil
I don’t like bullies, Geo; I’m glad you sorted him out!
Oh heck no, but it wasn’t because of our rub, there was something keeping him from school like work at his dad’s ranch. Jeff didn’t care.
All the best, Mic-Mac
geo sends
😎❤️😜
I didn’t even read it at all but that sounds great I read that- 10/4 out!🎖🎖🎖🎖
Ice cream solves everything. Haha. Your Dad sounds like my Dad. If I fell and hurt myself, he would always ask if the concrete or the ground was okay? Haha. It was his way of introducing humor to distract me from my pain. That skill actually comes in handy. And then there is always ice cream.
Ms. Irene,
I like your dad already. My dad was a mild man… until a Jeff Patterson came along. My dad never taught me to fight. I didn’t really feel remiss because of that. My son GeoV has no interest in taking the time and physical stress of learning to fight.
Maybe one day when he gets the lower hand of an uppercut to the head, he will think: “My dad could fight… where did I miss out?” and do something about it.
Jeff got an ass whooping and you got ice-cream and 2 days off school, sounds like a win-win situation. Loved it Geo.
Cheers, Ms. Irene!
One of my finer days at school and then with my dad. I’m glad my Mother didn’t ask: “What did you learn in school today?”
geo sends
I must say, I like your Dad and Irene’s Dad!
A teacher once told me that my Dad would spank me if I leaned my chair back on two feet. I promptly did, and was sent to my Dad’s office. (Same building – long story).
Well, my Dad didn’t like being told what he was going to do, or how to correct his son…. So he looked at me, winked, and said, “Don’t make me look bad.”
Then he proceeded to spank the crap out of his office chair. I gave my best audio performance of a young lifetime. Then I went back to class and took “great pains” to look quite wounded, sit gingerly, and not look my teacher in the eye for the rest of the day….
Did not tell a soul until ling after my Dad died.
Learned a lit about being a good dad that day.
That was a great ending, Geo. Did Jeff Patterson bother you again after the ass whooping?